The Untouchable (32 page)

Chapter Sixty-One

Rosy fell asleep alone, at around three a.m. The alarm woke her at six. She switched it off, sat up in bed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Marco?” She said, to the empty room.

Reaching for the phone on the bedside table she dialed the front desk. “Good morning. How may I help you?” said the receptionist, a man this time.

“Could you connect me to Mr. Dallariva’s room, please?”

“Mr. Dallariva? I’m afraid we don’t have a guest with that name.”

“Has he checked out?” Rosy pushed back the bedding and swung her feet to the floor. Standing, she waited for the answer.

“He never checked in,” the receptionist said.

“He didn’t? He didn’t check in last night?”

“No.”

“But he never left.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“Is there something else with which I can help you?”

“No. No, thank you.”

Rosy hung up and picked up her phone, dialing Marco’s number. “Where are you?” she asked his voicemail. “Please call me, and…”

And what? She cut the call and tossed the phone into her bag. It missed, hitting the wall where it broke apart.

“Shit!” On hands and knees, she scrabbled for the pieces. Sitting back on her heels, she tried to put them together. It didn’t work. “
Shit
,” she yelled at the ceiling “
shit, shit, shit
.”

She fell back and lay on the floor. What did it matter, anyway? Clearly, Marco had gone. He’d be on his way to Chicago, hating her. He wouldn’t answer messages from her for a while, so what did it matter that her phone had bust? She rubbed her eyes, pressing back the all too common sting of tears. She and Marco should be at Dr. Hollingberry’s rooms today, having swabs taken. It was not to be. She’d have to do her best, alone. She got up, and went to shower and dress.

***

Rosy slept on the plane, face turned to the window. At Nice Airport, she hired a car and drove to Saint Michel. She hadn’t confirmed arrival time with Lydia or Mel. Having trashed her phone, she had no option now. She’d just have to pitch up and hope they hadn’t taken off for the day.

Saint Michel village, and the valley where her house and Marco’s lay in the lush, glorious summer green of old trees, loaded her heart with pain. She drove the same way Ricky had driven her, that first time, through the village, down into the valley where the silver river now lay hidden beneath bright summer foliage. Here was the spot Marco had raced past on his bike, stopped in front of the car, and melted her with that first blast of his staggering blue stare. Her eyes blurred.

She blinked to clear her vision, driving the steep turns to the gate, waiting for, expecting, the growl of a Kawasaki engine, or a Honda, BMW, Yamaha, Ducati, Triumph, anything. Passing her house, shuttered behind a thick canopy of green, she went on, beyond the spot she’d knocked Marco off his bike, along the drive she’d walked so often, alone, with Leo, and with Marco, up to the gates of the Villa Diana, where she rang the bell.

“Hello?”

“Mel?”

“Who is it, please?”

“Mel? It’s me, Rosy.”

“Hi Rosy! Wow,
awesome
.”

Awesome? What was awesome? “Can you let me in?”

“Sure.” The gate slid. “Leo’s just going to sleep. I’ll be ten minutes settling him. Door’s open, and Lydia’s somewhere inside.”

“Thanks. I’ll find her.”

Rosy drove up to the house, beneath beautiful trees. She parked the car on a newly cobbled area to the side of the house and got out. What a difference. The gardens were glorious, sparkling green with the song of fountains and the bright energy of birdsong, brimming with pink, white, and cream roses, blue hydrangea, bursts of jasmine and the graceful sway of lilies. The lawns alone were a masterpiece.

She turned away, opened the boot and reached for her bag, but the sound of a car stopped her. A large white Audi with tinted windows approached along the elegant sweep of the driveway. The car, filthy, appeared to have been pushed to its utmost limit. The wipers had cut a sharp swathe through a coating of tiny dead insects on the windscreen. Rosy smelled hot oil and metal, watched the shimmer of heat over the bonnet as the car stopped behind hers. In the quiet garden, the birdsong faded, sidelined by the clicks of a powerful engine, cooling. She waited.

The driver’s door opened and Marco got out. Tired to the point of exhaustion, she squeezed her eyes shut. Tiredness played tricks. Her brain couldn’t be trusted. She opened her eyes and looked again, to be sure. “For goodness’s sake, Marco, where did you come from?”

He stretched, his t-shirt riding up to expose the smooth muscle of his stomach. She looked away, across the garden, away from the brilliance of his eyes, red-rimmed as they were by fatigue, away from the attractive shadow of stubble on his chin, sprinkled there by Georgio Armani himself, and the dark tussle of his hair.

“The flights from London were overbooked,” he said. “School holidays. I couldn’t get a seat, so I hired a car and drove.”

“You drove? It must be a thousand
miles! Are you out of your mind?”

“No, but I am rude, and sorry. Sorry for behaving the way I did.”

“But…I thought you were still in the hotel. I thought…”

“I escaped the back way. There was a photographer waiting out front. I was worried I’d been followed.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t answer my calls,
cara
.”

“I threw my phone and it broke.”

“My fault. I’m sorry, I’m sorry about everything. I’ve been a real jerk. Let’s go inside and talk.”

“Perhaps I didn’t express myself properly.”

“You did. So, if I am forgiven, let’s start working on a solution.”

“Let’s stay here. It’s lovely in the sun.”

Marco glanced past her, his eyes roaming the gardens.

“Better not. You never know.” Lifting her bag out of the car, he shut the boot, put an arm around her shoulders and walked her up the steps to the front door.

Mel flew into the hallway the second they stepped inside. “Oooooh!” she squealed, throwing her arms around Rosy. “Congratulations! What
fabulous
news.”

“What?” Rosy, taken by surprise, floundered in her enthusiastic embrace.

Mel let go and grabbed Marco’s hand, kissing him on both cheeks. “Sorry, I can’t help it! Everyone’s
thrilled
.”

He drew back, startled. “What? What’s up?”

Beaming, she pointed to a heap of newspapers on the hall table. “It’s in there. Pics on page five.”

Marco went to the table, leaving Rosy, afraid, marooned on the threshold. He pulled the top paper toward him, unfolded it and turned to page five. For several moments, in the absolute silence, with Mel standing wide-eyed between them, Marco stared, and whispered, “Oh God.”

“Is something wrong?” Rosy came forward, heart hammering.

“Have a look.”

Rosy looked at the newspaper, open on the table. For a moment, nothing registered.

And then she saw.

Chapter Sixty-Two

A large black and white photo of Marco, arguing with a traffic warden.

“An eye witness,” the caption informed, “who was in the Old Bond Street Store of Tiffany & Co at the same time as Dallariva yesterday evening, confirmed that Dallariva was looking at a tray of diamond rings.”

Rosy looked up. “You were doing that? Why were you doing that?”

“Um,” Mel said, “I’ll just, er, go and leave you two…” She hurried to the stairs, dashing up two at a time.

Horrified, Rosy studied the newspaper. Marco in a London street, Tiffany & Co in lights behind him, hands spread in appeal as a warden wrote a ticket. In another shot, her own face, pressed against the glass of the hotel door, spangled with rain, hand up like she had waved. By some astonishing quirk of digital technology, she had a smile on her face, secret and ethereal—a million miles off her feelings at the time.

“Dallariva entered the hotel in the early evening, carrying a bottle of champagne and red roses. By midnight, he had not emerged.”

“By midnight,” Marco murmured, reading over her shoulder, “I was fast asleep in my car on the Channel Tunnel train.” He glanced up the stairs, listened a moment and took her hand, leading her to the kitchen door, standing open to an empty room. The early morning activities had moved on to other parts of the house. “Come.” He pulled her into the scullery and closed the door. They faced each other in the half-dark room where she’d looked for Marco on the day so many months ago, when she’d stolen Lydia’s keys and intruded. Although it had been renovated to a state-of-the-art level, all its charming, original features had been left intact. She would know it anywhere.

“Okay,” Marco said. “I went to Tiffany on the way to your hotel,” he pulled a small, square, turquoise box out of his jeans’ pocket, “to buy you this, an engagement ring. I wanted, I want, to ask you to marry me.”

Rosy’s face crumpled. She shook her head, tears streaming.

Marco put his arms around her. “Listen, of course you’re right. We must be tested. If Frederick had an affair with my mother and I was born as a result of that, then we are half brother and sister. Please, please,
cara
, stop crying. It might not be true. I believe with all my heart it’s not true. Let’s establish that first. If it
is
true, we’ll deal with it, professionally, with counselling. Trust me, it could be worse.”

“How could it be worse!” she shouted, pushing him away.

He shoved his hands through his hair in despair and confusion. “Look,
listen to me.
At least you aren’t pregnant!”

His words fell into a pool of silence. The question in his eyes thickened that silence, brought him forward to grip her arms as he understood.

“I am,” she said. The livid blaze of Marco’s eyes terrified her, but at the same time, the slow, steady drip of relief filled her with resolve and reassurance.

Moments passed before Marco spoke. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“And does this doctor know what the situation is, or might be, between us?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said everything looks perfectly normal, at the moment.”

“So the baby will be born normal?”

Baby
. “There’s no guarantee.”

Marco walked to a narrow window set in the wall next to the back door. “Whatever happens,” he said, choosing his words with care, “we will have this baby if your doctor can assure us that he or she will have a good quality of life.” He turned to look at her, haggard. “I would not like our baby to suffer.”

“Um, Marco…” She stumbled on her words. “When I had the scan, the doctor found—”

Someone moved in the shadows of the half-dark room. Rosy’s mind blanked. She and Marco weren’t alone. Someone cleared their throat. A woman. Startled, Marco turned to look, blocking the light. Rosy focused on the figure. Yes, a woman, standing in the gloom hands clasped under her chin.

“Who?” Frowning, Rosy pointed.

“
Lydia?
” Marco shouted, furious.

“It’s me.” She stepped out of the shadows, eyes brimming with dismay.

“What are you doing here?” he yelled.

“It’s me,” Lydia repeated. “I was in the cool room when you came in.” She glanced behind her, pointing at a newly walled-off section of the scullery. “I didn’t hear you at first. But it’s me.”

“We can see that,” Marco growled. “Please get out.”

Lydia stood her ground. “It’s me. I’m the woman Frederick had a child with. It’s me, not Diana.”

The three of them gaped, and then Lydia said, her voice low, her eyes down. “I never meant to cause distress. Excuse me.” She hurried from the room, vanishing into the house.

Rosy rushed to the back door, flung it open to the sunshine and went outside. She crossed the terrace and slumped onto the top step, overlooking the lower lawns and the aquamarine sparkle of the pool. Knees pulled up to her chest, head down, she closed her eyes against the overpowering surge of relief that flooded the extremity of each and every nerve canal, unable to stop the tears.

Presently, she heard footsteps, felt Marco sit on the step beside her, felt his arm around her shoulders.

“I have a half-brother,” Rosy sobbed.

“And he’s not me.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to meet him?” She wiped her eyes.

“Let’s leave that for now, we have important things to disc—”

“Frederick was extraordinarily generous to Lydia in his will, but also to Ricky, and me, so I never thought anything of it. Fiona’s going to
freak
when I tell her the news, but I suppose I should really go and talk to Lydia, shouldn’t I? I mean, just think how she must feel.” She half-rose, but Marco pulled her down.

“
Whoa
. No. You’ve just dropped a bombshell. I have a few questions of my own.”

“Are you happy, Marco?”

“That you are expecting my baby?”

“I’m not expecting your baby.”

The smile dropped off his face. “What?” He spat the word, his eyes dark.

Rosy put her head on his shoulder. “I’m not expecting your baby, I’m expecting two of your babies. Twins.”

Marco leaped to his feet. His great shout of delight, followed by a burst of amazed laughter, launched the birds from the trees. Rosy, depleted, burst into fresh tears.

He sat back down and pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her face. “Shhh, shhh. Everything is okay. I love you. Is it a secret? Can we tell everyone?”

“I’m sixteen weeks,” she cried. “Tell everyone. Your father, your sister, Zavi, Valerie, Terry, even Roman bloody West. Everyone. I don’t care who knows.”

They sat for a while holding each other, sitting on the stone step under the leafy glory of summer trees, until the birds came back. When she’d finished crying, had dried the tears and blown her nose, he slid out from under her and shifted a few steps down.

Looking up, he presented the ring box to Rosy, open to a brilliant sparkle of pure sunlight caught in a single, magnificent diamond.

“Oh!” She sat on her hands.

“Oh?”

“It’s…it’s…”

“Not big enough?” He grinned.

“Silly!” Rosy laughed, meeting his eyes, seeing the vital question etched in blue. “It’s ridiculously big, and absolutely beautiful. I-I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

“Will you marry me,
Rosamaria
?”

She freed her hands, leaned forward and held his face, kissing him on the lips. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”

He slipped the ring onto her finger, between kisses. “I’m thinking of changing my life at the end of my contract.”

“Why?”

“When will I have time otherwise to teach Leo and these little guys,” he touched her stomach, “how to fly a kite, to swim, to train a puppy, to ride a bicycle? When will I have time to restore my Indian with Zavi, and to ride the Isle of Mann TT?”

“Cross that last one off the list, because you’re
never
doing that, see?” She glared. “I’ve Googled it. People die. So…over my dead body.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned. “Shall we go to bed now?”

Rosy glanced at her watch. “What, before lunch?”

Marco stood up, yawned and stretched. He pulled Rosy to her feet. “I’ve been awake for twenty-four hours, riding a fast motorbike and driving a fast car. I’m dead.”

Rosy turned to face him, hugging him around the waist. “Let me cook you breakfast first.”

“Thanks.” He kissed her nose. “Will there be red velvet cake?”

“There will be, later.” Rosy dropped her arms, took his hand, and they went inside. “Will you teach me to ride a motorbike?” she asked, on the way.

“With absolute pleasure, but not today.”

Chapter Sixty-Three

Rosemary and Marco flew to Chicago days after the news of her pregnancy broke. Marco chuckled whenever he recalled the flight with Mel and Leo in tow, and Valerie’s face when she’d been asked to take delivery of a new motorhome, at the Indianapolis racetrack, for use as a nursery.

“Are you out of your bleedin’ minds?” she asked, surveying the entourage and its equipment with disbelief.

“No. America is the most logical place to buy a thing like that,” Rosemary answered, and, as usual, she’d been right.

Marco bent to whisper in Rosy’s ear. “Have you told her there’s a third one coming? Have you told her about the Red Velvet mobile unit?”

Rosy bit back a smile. “I’ll wait until later, when she’s had a beer or two.”

In the garage at Indianapolis, Rosy wore black jeans, a red shirt, and red and black tooled cowboy boots. Someone in one of the American teams gave her a black cowboy hat with
73
on the hatband, and she wore it with flair, as sassy as any Indiana blueblood.

There was always cake on race day, but Marco wasn’t allowed any unless he won. Red velvet sponge with black icing, tasting like heaven.

After Indianapolis, they went to California,
then Texas, back to Europe, then on to the East, Malaysia, Japan, and Australia, by which time Dr. Hollingberry, the curious baby-lookalike specialist Rosemary insisted on travelling all the way to London to see, began to mumble about staying at home to get ready for the births. But where was home? Rosemary wouldn’t go to London to have the babies; she wanted them born in the Villa Diana, the natural way. Hollingberry refused saying he would deliver them in a state-of-the-art clinic by Caesarean section, or nothing. Marco, sensing a standoff, booked Rosemary into Saint Theodore’s, put a private jet on standby for Hollingberry, and went on racing.

“The due date is miles off,” Rosemary said to Marco, when Hollingberry eventually insisted she stop travelling. “There’s only one more race this season, and I’m not missing it for
anything
. This is where you’re going to win the world championship, I know you are. Hollingberry can come with us, if he’s that desperate.”

Marco laughed, imagining the mild, pink, soft-spoken doctor in the dustbowl of Valencia, his ears stuffed with cotton wool.

The ramifications on the win at Valencia were endless, the speculations infinite. The world championship remained wide open at the very last race of the season, thanks to Marco’s two DNF’s in Germany and Belgium.

“Dallariva wins, or falls off,” Roman West told the press, grinning like a fox, having won pole position in the qualifiers. “All or nothing. We’re crossing fingers for ‘nothing’ in the final race tomorrow.”

Marco seethed, threw the newspaper in the bin, wouldn’t watch the sports news on television. Rosemary smiled even when he told her it wasn’t funny. She soothed, dispatching a grumpy, teething Leo to the nursery with Mel. She cooked his favourite meal, spaghetti carbonara, gave him shoulder massages and lay next to him even while he watched a war movie, one hand on her stomach where he could feel tiny kicks and squirms.

She built him up, he admitted, by calming him down.

On race day, under a bright blue November sky, in perfect conditions, Marco rode to the start after the sighting lap, stopping on the front of the second row, Roman West’s smug arse in his face. He’d come last to the grid, deliberately, to keep as much heat in his tires as possible. Head down, eyes up he waited for the lights to go out.

West didn’t stand a chance. While he dealt with Savage and Costa
starting second and third alongside him, Marco zinged past on the first corner, hanging him out to dry. For the first six laps, West stayed on Marco’s tail, climbing all over his back and then, as Marco flicked his eyes to his own board on the pit wall in the seventh, then eighth, then ninth lap, he saw West drop back. The race by no means over, Marco set to work, at first in vain. Savage took the lead away in lap twelve when Marco ran wide in corner two, Costa taunted him in lap fifteen, trying to slip in behind Savage, forcing Marco to block, slowing him by riding in his slipstream. Between lap sixteen and twenty, the lead changed eight times. Lap twenty-one began with the three of them thundering down the straight at more than two hundred miles an hour, and so tight into turn one that a sheet of tissue paper wouldn’t have fitted between them.